


The Fear

by Jamie_Douglas



Category: Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon, Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Blood and Violence, Death, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Douglas/pseuds/Jamie_Douglas
Summary: Something terrible happens to Lord John Grey--again. Will he be able to keep it secret from Jamie?
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Claire Beauchamp/Lord John Grey, Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Comments: 47
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

John Grey felt the cold fear rising up to his throat, threatening to choke him--the same terror he had felt as a very young officer, that horrible night in Scotland. 

“Don’t struggle and it won’t hurt,” a raspy voice crooned beside his ear. 

A heavy arm was around his chest and the point of a dagger cut painfully into the flesh of his back. Grey thought quickly. If he tried to throw the man off, or jabbed an elbow into his gut, that dagger would slice through his kidney. Was there nothing he could do? Someone would happen along, he reasoned. The regiment was camped nearby and the soldiers often wandered about at night. 

But his captor had kicked at the back of John’s knees and forced him to the ground now. He heard the tearing of fabric and felt the icy November air on his skin. One hand pushed him forward while the other kept hold of the blade. He would need a hand to free himself from his breeches, John thought. Perhaps, while the man was doing that, John could knock him over without getting stuck. He hadn’t thought fast enough, though—his attacker was already pressing his bare skin, erect with intention, against John’s backside. Fight and possibly escape this humiliating fate, or surrender and possibly live? It was no kind of choice. 

The man’s target eluded him in the blackness of the night. His fleshy weapon stabbed at John’s skin, searching mercilessly for a way in. “Help!” John shouted suddenly, pride be damned. Wouldn’t someone hear? Surely… But no, the man had succeeded in finding what he sought. Grey screamed in blinding agony, shaking violently as he tried not to jerk against the dagger still pressed to his back. 

The vicious assault continued, rising in both force and pace as his attacker breathed heavily. “Make another sound and it’ll be yer last,” he whispered. 

It seemed to take forever. Grey felt his mind separate from his body. I’m not here, he thought. I’m not here at all. Finally, the heavy body was gone from his and he fell onto his side, weeping. 

***  
“John?” 

He opened his eyes but everything was dark around him. 

“John!” a voice shouted—a voice he recognized. Jamie’s familiar form crouched over him. A hand grasped his shoulder. “Are ye injured? What happened?” 

Grey groaned as he tried to sit up and found he couldn’t. What could he tell Jamie? “Someone…came upon me and caught me unaware,” he hissed through gritted teeth. 

“Aye? Did he rob ye? Beat ye?” The anger in Jamie’s voice was clear. “How long ago?” He was looking toward the road ahead as though ready to race off after the bandit. 

“I—I don’t know…” 

“Never mind then. Can ye walk? Where are ye hurt?” 

In the dim moonlight, John could see Jamie’s eyes sweep over him. He had pulled his breeches up but, torn as they were, he doubted they would stay if he stood—if he even could stand. “I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.” John’s voice was barely audible. A deep shame flushed through him. He’d been hurt in battle before and always walked away. 

“No matter.” Jamie bent and scooped John up in his arms. He looked around. No one was about—no one to see his friend in such an unmanly pose. He just needed to get him to the tent—to Claire—as soon as possible. They could discover his injuries there. Jamie covered the half-mile quickly, staggering slightly under Grey’s weight. They said nothing as he walked, each man absorbed in his own thoughts. Jamie didn’t want to bother John by asking for more information or by drawing attention to his helpless state, and John could think of nothing he could say that would not betray him. He concentrated on making no noise as Jamie’s lurching steps on the uneven ground jostled his battered body.


	2. What You Don't Want Him to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Claire tends to him, Lord John cannot hide his shame.

Finally, they reached camp, and Jamie brought his friend into the tent, brushing past Claire to set him gently down on their makeshift bed. With candles glowing all around, they could see John clearly now. His face was untouched, and no blood stained his shirt or coat. His breeches were torn and dirt-covered, but nothing else seemed amiss. Claire hurried to his side and bent over him. “John, are you ill?” She turned a questioning eye on Jamie.

“Said he was set upon. I don’t know where the man beat him—maybe an internal injury?” 

Claire turned back to her patient and started to remove his coat. “Can you tell me anything, John? Where does it hurt?” 

Where, indeed. Grey closed his eyes tightly. “I—I’m fine. Just need to rest.” He opened his eyes and tried to smile. “Thank you.” 

Claire walked over to Jamie. In a low voice, she said, “Maybe you should leave us alone for a while.” 

Jamie raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “I’ll get him something to eat.”

As soon as he was gone, Claire poured a small glass of sherry and brought it to John. “Drink this and then tell me what it is you don’t want Jamie to know.” She put an arm behind his shoulders, thinking he would sit up, but he stayed curled on his side, his eyes closed. She set down the glass, pulled up a stool, and sat beside him. Her hand moved to his forehead and he flinched at her touch. “No fever. If you do have an internal injury, we could be wasting precious time here. I’m going to take a look.” She succeeded in taking off his coat, and noticed a neat, small cut in the back of it. She pulled up his shirt and ran her hands over his chest, belly, and sides. “Nothing here. I’m going to turn you over a bit.” Her fingers touched a small abrasion on the right side of his back. “What did this?”

“A dagger,” he said, knowing she would not stop her search there. How could he stop her?

“Hmm. So this… man… held a dagger to your back?” She waited for an answer but none came. “And then what? Robbed you? I’m afraid I don’t understand. You’re clearly in pain, but it can’t be from this little scrape.” Her hands moved to his breeches.

John brought his hand down quickly to stop her. “I am a physician, John. I’ve seen it all. Besides, I’ve seen… you…before.” 

That thought didn’t help at all. “No,” he said, in what he hoped was a firm tone. 

He was facing away from her. She placed a hand on his chin and turned it toward her. “You mustn’t be embarrassed with me, John. I can help you. Whatever this man did, wherever he hurt you, you must let me help you.”

“I don’t need any help. I told you—I just need rest.” He tried to keep his gaze steady as he looked into her concerned brown eyes. 

She shook her head. “There is no way in hell you would have let Jamie carry you here if you were not considerably damaged. Now stop lying to me. You don’t need to tell me anything—just let me look.” 

He desperately wanted to spring up and take himself out of there, to hide alone and wait for his wounds—physical and mental—to heal. But he knew there was no way he could walk normally, in his current condition. She would eventually reach the same conclusion anyway. He looked away again, and took his hand off of hers, sighing heavily. 

Claire slowly pulled his torn breeches down, searching his bare skin with her eyes. No bruising or abrasions to the abdomen or groin. Dare she prod him a bit to see if something was wrong on the inside? A hernia, perhaps? Those could be horribly painful. Perhaps he had wrenched himself free from his assailant’s grasp and torn something inside as well as his pants. Then she saw it—a thin trickle of blood on his left buttock. 

He heard her sharp intake of breath. “What is it?” 

“You’re bleeding. Can you roll onto your stomach, please?” 

“No.” 

“John…” Claire’s voice cracked. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “This man, did he…?”

Grey took a deep breath and closed his eyes again. “Yes,” he whispered. He did need help, after all. 

“Oh John, I’m so sorry!” she began, but he raised a hand to quiet her. Clearly, he didn’t want to discuss it. His face was red with mortification and his body, betraying him, trembled. She helped him to roll over and then fetched a clean bit of cloth, dousing it in the sherry. “This is going to sting a bit.” 

Her hands were gentle but as soon as the cloth touched his wound, a searing pain shot through him. He bit his lower lip hard to keep from crying out and tasted the tang of blood in his mouth. Claire kept her voice steady as she surveyed the awful damage. I must be professional, she told herself. For his sake. “You’re going to need some stitches.” 

He said nothing, but when she moved to the head of the bed and risked a glance at his face, she saw so many emotions in his eyes that tears sprang to her own. She turned away, not wanting to add to his misery. She took a bottle of laudanum from her medicine chest and soaked the edge of another piece of cloth with it. Then she held it to his lips. “Here.” She wasn’t sure whether the wound itself or the stitches would hurt him more, and she didn’t want to find out. 

John sucked on the cloth until he could feel the effects of the drug as it filled the corners of his vision with looming shadows like scavenging birds. He closed his eyes but they were still there, only larger. At least the pain was slightly duller. He felt her hands on him again, gently prying, but didn’t recognize the accompanying moan as his own. Then something small and sharp stabbed into the most painful spot and he cried out in spite of himself. 

“I’m sorry, John. I’ll be as quick as I can.” Four solid stitches later, Claire set down her needle and took a damp sponge to his bruised, tender skin, patting lightly. He couldn’t tell what she was applying but it seemed to be thick and sticky. “There, all done.” She patted his lower back in a sisterly fashion and covered him with a wool blanket. “I will need to check every day for infection, but if all goes well, you should be all right in about a week. I don’t think there’s any deep muscle damage.” 

The laudanum had unfortunately worn off quickly. “A week? What am I supposed to do until then? I can’t--” He broke off, feeling a lump forming in his throat. The very thought of Jamie—and everyone else, but especially Jamie—returning to find him like this, unable even to sit, possibly for days—it didn’t bear thinking about. 

Claire had removed his breeches the rest of the way and piled them together with his coat. She helped him pull his shirt down. “I’ll find you some clothes and we’ll get you turned over at least. Don’t worry, he won’t be back for a while yet.” She saw his pleading look and hastened to add, “And I won’t tell him.” 

“But you tell him everything.” Grey hated the whining tone he could hear in his own voice. 

She rested a hand on his cheek. “I won’t tell him this.”


	3. Unable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie returns and wants to start the hunt for the man who hurt John.

When Jamie returned, carrying some food and a bottle of something in a basket, he saw that John was awake, lying back against a stack of pillows and blankets. “How are ye, John? Did Claire fix ye up?” 

“Yes, I’m feeling much better now. And thank you for…whatever that is.” Grey nodded at the basket in Jamie’s hand.

“I’m not sure I know, myself, but it was all I could find. I did manage to ‘borrow’ a verra fine bottle of whisky from a certain colonel’s tent, however.” He smiled and pulled the bottle from the basket. He poured John a large amount, then turned to his wife. “Is it internal then?” 

Claire nodded and turned away to clean up her instruments. “Not all injuries are visible, as you know. There may have been a slow leak somewhere that subsequently coagulated. In any case, he will need bedrest, but I think he’ll be fine.” 

“Thank God for that.” Jamie laid a hand on the blanket covering John’s leg. “Now what can ye tell me about this bastard, so I can find him and show him what I think o’ him?” 

Grey took a large gulp of his whisky. “Not much, I’m afraid. It was dark, and he came up behind me. I didn’t really see him at all. He was wearing a uniform, though. I could see his arm.” John shuddered, hoping Jamie didn’t notice the small movement.

“So, a soldier then. Did he say anything? Could ye tell anything by the way he spoke?” 

The whisky was almost gone now. Without being asked, Jamie refilled his cup. He took it gratefully and sipped. “He said, uh… Don’t move and I won’t have to kill you, something like that. English. Not very low-class but not overly educated, either.” 

Jamie’s eyebrows rose. “So he didn’t want ye to see his face, because ye might have recognized him?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“And what did he get?” 

Grey sputtered. “Pardon me?” 

“What did he take from ye? Money? Weapons?” 

“Ah. I did not have any weapons on me, unfortunately. Normally I would, of course, but… I had just thought to go for a short walk to clear my head before retiring. I didn’t think…” He cleared his throat and began again. “Yes, money, and a ring.”

“Not your pocket watch? The one just like your brother’s?” John shook his head. “That is odd, is it not? That he wouldn’t take that? Though maybe not so odd that a soldier would turn robber, considering the state of things in this country lately.”

John took another drink, then looked for somewhere to set his cup. Claire hurried over to take it from him. “He didn’t see it, I guess. Didn’t have time to look everywhere before he ran off, the coward.” 

“Mmph,” Jamie said. 

Claire knew what that meant. Something wasn’t adding up and Jamie was getting suspicious. She needed to distract him from his enquiry. “We shall leave Lord John here tonight, I think, if that is all right with you. He really should not be moved yet.”

“Aye, of course.”

John shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly take your bed from you. I’m sure my valet can help me to my own quarters.” 

“Nonsense.” Jamie was adamant. “It’s no’ much of a bed anyway, and I prefer to sleep by the fire. Besides, you may need Claire in the night.” 

Grey closed his eyes. “Thank you.” He was stubborn, but he was tired, and he knew he’d lost the battle. Besides, he really did not want to be alone tonight. He felt small and silly, like a boy, admitting it to himself, but having Jamie near him made him feel safe. If only he'd come along sooner... but no, that would have been worse. Better he should never know what John had been unable to stop.


	4. A Bad Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie hears John crying out in the night.

Jamie awoke in the dead of the night, a cold sweat breaking out on his bare chest. Something had invaded his sleep—a faint sound like the whimper of a kicked dog. He glanced at Claire, but she was fast asleep beside him, warm in the dying glow of the smoored fire. He got to his feet, uneasily looking toward the corner where Grey lay. 

“No,” John murmured. His eyes were closed but his face was a mask of trouble. 

Jamie approached him cautiously, touched a hand to his shoulder. “John? John, are you awake?” Not receiving an answer, he stood there for a moment, uncertain what to do. Grey’s body twitched under the blanket and he groaned, repeating, “Nnooo…” Beads of sweat clung to his brow although the air around him was cold. Jamie felt an eerie tingle creeping up his back. He squeezed the shoulder hard this time, bent down to Grey’s ear, and whispered, “John! Wake up!” 

An arm lashed out from the bed but Jamie caught it before it struck him. John’s eyelids flew open. He glared at the man beside him with an uncharacteristic fury, until he was able to focus on his friend. “Jamie.” His voice was hoarse. The Scotsman still had hold of his arm, and John could feel the heat of the redhead’s big hand through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“Ye were havin’ a dream, I think. A bad one. I dinna ken if I should wake ye.” Jamie squinted down at him with concern in his eyes. 

John collected himself, breathing deeply. He shook his head as if to clear his mind of the painful images that lurked there. “I thank you for that. Must have been that whisky you gave me. I am quite all right now. Go back to bed,” he said, but he didn’t pull his arm back.

Jamie patted the arm and replaced it gently. “I’m no’ sleepy right now. I’ll just sit here for a wee bit, if ye dinna mind.” He tried to smile at his friend, but it came out as a grimace. Something was wrong. He felt it in the air, about to smother them both with a black, smoky evil. Grey turned his head away but in the moonlight, Jamie saw the glint of a tear escaping from John’s left eye. He looked back at Claire. She was still asleep. Good. He leaned over, without touching John, and said quietly but clearly, “I think I know what happened to you. I know because it happened to me, too.” Then he sat back and folded his arms, settling in for his night’s vigil. 

The one tear slid down his face, but John managed to keep the others inside. Frozen with shock, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.   
***

At first light, John woke to the sounds of a woman’s whispers. Claire was at the entrance to the tent, shooing Jamie out. She came over to him then, her mouth forming a professional smile. “How are we this morning, then?” 

John rubbed at his forehead with an unsteady hand. “Last night…” he began.

“Yes? What about last night? Jamie said you slept well? He sat by you for hours. Making sure you were still breathing, I think.” She chuckled as though that were normal behaviour for a man like Jamie. 

John didn’t know what to say. Had he imagined it? What Jamie had said? He might have been dreaming, or still drunk from the whisky, or the laudanum. He hoped with everything in him that it wasn’t true. If it was, did she know? 

“I sent him out so I could check your...” She motioned for him to turn over. 

“Oh, right. Must you really? It’s only been a few hours.” 

“The first few hours are the most important, when you’re talking about infection.” Seeing his discomfort, she lay one hand on his shoulder and one hand on his hip and helped him roll over. He stifled his groans as she inspected him, making sure the wound was clean and pus-free. Finally, it was over, and she stood up. “So far, so good,” she said, in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. Then a thought occurred to her. “Oh, you must need to… You did have rather a lot to drink last night. I’ll fetch the bedpan.” 

Grey felt like he was in the waiting room to hell. He couldn’t decide which was worse—the throbbing pain in his lower extremities that still made him want to cry like a baby, or the complete and utter humiliation of being so helpless and exposed in front of another person. If he ever did manage to figure out who did this to him, the man would not live long. Then again, drawing out his death would surely bring some release. 

His bodily functions taken care of, John wanted to ask Claire about Jamie. What could he have meant? When might it have happened? But he couldn’t do that. One didn’t speak of such things, and he did not even know if Jamie had told her. A man as big and strong and proud as that—would he ever admit it to a soul? And yet, he had. He’d admitted it to John. 

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Claire was saying. “And I won’t press you. I just think you need to hear a couple of things, so please listen.”

John stared at her, then looked away. He knew better than to try to keep her quiet. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “Whatever you think you should or shouldn’t have done, you must know that. You probably think you should have fought him off, but that’s just not true. If you had, you wouldn’t be here now—you’d likely have bled out and died from being sliced open with his dagger. You would certainly have had severe internal injuries that may have killed you eventually, if not right away.”

She saw his brow furrow angrily. “I tried—I would have--”

“Sshhh. This is exactly what I mean. You are a soldier, John. You are a very strong, brave man. But you are also very smart. That’s why you’re still alive today. Don’t ever be sorry for that.” She bent over and kissed his forehead soundly. “I’m not.”


	5. Let's Be Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie wants to talk to John alone.

When Jamie came back to the tent, it was instantly clear to John that he had not imagined what the Scotsman had said the previous night. He wouldn’t look at Grey—his too-perceptive cerulean eyes darted all around, from the fire to the coffee pot to the musket propped ready in a corner, then finally came to rest on his wife as he spoke. “Claire, Young Ian’s wanting to speak wi’ ye, down by the river.” 

“Oh really? What about?” Equally perceptive, she stared back at Jamie, a question in her eyes. Did he know? Did he want her to leave so he could talk to John in private? She hadn’t imagined that either man would want the other to know such a thing, but if they did share their stories, it could help. John’s physical wounds would heal, but she knew from experience with Jamie how long the psychological effects might last. In Jamie’s case, it seemed to be forever. 

Jamie nodded almost imperceptibly. “He dinna say. Only asked me to fetch ye. Dinna worry about yer patient--I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

“I do not require a minder,” John huffed, but both his friends ignored him. 

“All right, I’ll go. If you’re sure,” she added pointedly. 

“I am.” 

Claire picked up a canteen to fill with water at the river and left, with one look over her shoulder at Grey. 

Once she was gone, Jamie took his time wandering over to where John lay. The injured man was studying his hands, frowning at some dirt trapped under one nail. Deciding to keep to his feet, Jamie set himself to his task and spoke quickly. “Before ye go to thinkin’ it, she didnae say a word.” 

Grey kept quiet. Neither man looked at the other. 

Jamie cleared his throat. “I still have nightmares, sometimes. About what…what happened to me.” 

Dear God, this was painful—a different kind of pain, but pain all the same. Lord John stayed silent, curling and uncurling his fists under the blanket. He understood well how difficult it must be for Jamie to say this aloud. 

The redhead continued, facing the canvas wall. “It was years ago, but I remember—everything.” He paused. “Just tell me one thing, John. Do ye ken what I’m saying to ye?” 

John’s voice was low. “Yes, I think I do.”

“And that’s what happened to ye?” 

“We are talking around it, but if I understand you, then yes.” 

Jamie whirled around suddenly, his eyes brimming. “Let’s be clear, then. Will ye tell me what happened last night before I discovered ye?”

John searched Jamie’s face and found what he was looking for. He held his gaze, though his own eyes stung with unspilled tears. “I was raped,” he whispered, then looked away. 

Jamie moved toward him, then halted. He paced forward and back, shaking his head of auburn curls. He didn’t trust himself to speak. A memory of Black Jack’s hand on him flashed without warning into his mind and the sickly scent of lavender suddenly filled the air. 

John wanted to say something now—anything to erase the imagined echo of those words. He wanted to comfort the big man, but what could he possibly say? I wish a horrible, slow death on whoever did the same to you? I love you desperately and I want to hold you in my arms? 

Finally, Jamie broke the silence. “Why did ye no’ tell me last night? When I might have gone after him?” 

So that’s how it’s going to be, John thought. Turn your pain, your shame, to anger. I can understand that. Out loud, he said, “You know why not. Did you tell anyone?” 

Jamie looked at the ground. “No. I told Claire, eventually.” He looked up again. “But ye could ha’ told me.” 

Now it was John’s turn to be angry. “How could I have known that, sir? It has been decades since you warned me never to speak again of--”

“That is entirely different,” Fraser cut him off. “Your… that has nothing to do wi’ this. Does it?” 

“No. Not that I am aware of, unless someone suspected something of my nature and decided to…” Grey bit his already-sore lip.

“That has nothing to do wi’ this,” Jamie reasserted. “The fact is, we were both…violated.”

“Jamie, why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I—I just thought--” He walked over to the bed now and rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “Because I hoped it might help ye. To know that I… I know what ye’re feeling.” 

Grey touched Jamie’s hand with his own. “Thank you for that. But did it not occur to you that in telling me this, you have just doubled my agony?” He could no longer stop the tears. He let them fall, shamelessly, to soak into the white of his shirt. “I would have wished that you, of all others, would never know what this feels like.” 

Jamie carefully turned away from John’s face. “I’m sorry. I didna think o’ that. But it was a long, long time ago, and I have moved on. Ye dinna need to feel bad for me.” 

“Have you really?” John sniffed, struggling to regain his composure. “Moved on?” 

“Aye, in most ways.”

“How?” 

“Claire helped me to face it. I had hoped that talking with me might do the same for you.”

“I see. My situation may be a bit different from yours, though.” 

“Oh? How so?” 

“This was not the first time.” He lowered his chin to his chest. “When I was young, not so long after Culloden… I swore it would never happen again.” 

Jamie made a low growling sound in his throat. “That’s terrible.”

“So you must see why—why I feel so…”

“Nay, John. The man had a blade on you this time, and before… well, you were just a bairn.” 

“Not quite. I was a man, though a very young one. Even so, I should have been able to--”

Jamie’s eyes flashed. “Do ye not think I hated myself, as well? Have ye no idea what it did to me, on the inside, letting that bastard do what he did?” 

Grey sat up, wincing in pain as he did so. “What do you mean, letting him? Why would you let him?” 

“I gave him my word.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

The story came out in a rush. “He had my wife, and I knew well what he might do to her. I couldna o’erpower him, being in the gaol, and him with so many weapons and men at his disposal. He had power over us both, ye see. It was all I could think to do.” 

“You…exchanged yourself for her?” 

“I did. And I dinna regret that part of it, but once she’d got away, I… I let him have his way wi’ me. Just because I’d given my word.”

“One’s word is everything to a gentleman,” John agreed. 

“Aye, but even then? Why did I not even struggle? I might have hurt him, though he would have hurt me back.” Jamie’s eyes had a faraway look, as though he was picturing the scene in his mind. “So ye see, we’re the same—I couldna fight, either. There’s no shame in it, John.” 

“Ha!” Grey scoffed. “You were acting out of chivalry and honour. I was merely foolish and weak.” 

“Dinna say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“No, it isn’t. I have known you a long time, John, and I have never thought ye to be weak.”

John laughed mirthlessly. “But foolish, though?” 

“I used to think… that your feelings for me were foolish. I just didna understand them then.”

“And you do now?” 

Jamie didn’t answer this. Instead, he decided to make one more confession. “He spent a long time wi’ me, did things… Eventually, I was so relieved when he stopped hurting me, that I…” He shook his head. “I was confused.” 

John spoke kindly. “There is no shame in that either, Jamie.” When the redhead glanced sharply at him, he clarified. “And it does not mean that you are…different.” 

Jamie swallowed hard. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Thank you for saying that. I think that you have helped me more than I have helped you, mo charaid.” 

“Not at all.” 

Jamie took John’s hand and squeezed it firmly before letting go. He turned around just as Claire returned.


	6. The Talk Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are just a few more things that Jamie wants to say.

She saw them there, Jamie standing beside the bed, red-faced, and John in it, looking almost as pained as he did the previous night. Claire thought quickly. “I just came to tell you that Ian has an errand for me—someone I need to tend to, on the far side of the camp. So I won’t be back for a couple of hours.” She glanced at John’s face again and added, “Unless you need me?” 

Grey attempted a polite smile. “Thank you, I am well.”

She looked only briefly at her husband, knowing already from the way he held his body that he had been remembering the traumatic events at Wentworth Prison. “All right then, I’m off.” She left without her instruments case, but neither man noticed.  
Jamie pulled up a stool and sat by John’s side. In for a penny, in for a pound. He was determined that John should get some benefit out of his disturbing revelation. Claire had told him that, in her time, there was something called a “talk cure”—she’d insisted that people, even men, would get over their problems faster if they talked about them with someone else. It had seemed a strange notion then, but from reliving his own experiences in the safe bubble of Claire’s love, he knew now that it made a great deal of sense. 

He took a deep breath and began again. “I wanted to die.” 

Grey turned his head sharply. He had been horribly ashamed, had felt like an emptied shell, but he had not wished to end his own life. He was too strong-willed and too courteous to his family to do that. Jamie had been through so much—so many gruesome battles, the loss of his wife, years of loneliness in exile—and had not given up the fight. What could have made him do it then?

Jamie answered the unspoken question. “I thought…that God would cast me out from the kingdom of heaven for what I’d done. That I was no longer a man. I thought so many things…” His brow creased in remembered sorrow. “The violence that had been done to me, the pain I’d felt—in so many places, you can’t imagine—that was bad enough to haunt my dreams. But what made me not want to close my eyes again, or else to close them forever, was what came after. How he… he owned me. He broke me. I was so out of my mind, trying desperately to think of Claire instead of him... and he used that. He didn’t only use my body, ye ken? He used my mind—got inside it and twisted it around for his own pleasure. When he… when he changed his ways from brutal to tender, I was actually grateful…” He grimaced and swallowed hard, bringing a hand up to his mouth to quell a rising tide of vomit. 

John sat up straighter, hurting himself in the process, and tried to reach a bowl from the small table beside him. 

Jamie shook his head. “I’m all right now. I needed to tell ye, because I need ye to understand why I threatened ye that night at Ardsmuir.” His throat was dry and he was tired of talking, but he pressed on. “When ye told me about that soldier friend o’ yours who died at Culloden…” 

“Hector,” John whispered. 

“… I wisnae sure if he was more than a friend to ye or not, until ye stroked my hand and looked into my eyes.” 

Grey looked down. “I was foolish to do that. And selfish. I should have realized you were feeling vulnerable. You had just told me about your wife, after all.” 

“Yes, John, but you were vulnerable, too. I didna consider that, or how ye felt. I only felt sick and afraid.”

“I knew you did. I assumed it was because of… me.” 

“But it was not. That’s what I need ye to know, even after all these years. I didna threaten to kill ye just because ye made eyes at me. The situation was similar, ye see. I was your prisoner. I had no power and you had it all. When I saw ye looking at me like that, all I could think of was him… the bastard who nearly killed me.” 

Grey had no words with which to reply. Any polite response he could think of was insufficient. I’m sorry, he thought, but didn’t say. I’m sorry he did that to you. 

Jamie wasn’t finished. “For months, even though we became friends, and I grew to trust ye somewhat, I still feared that one day you would turn your authority over me to your own advantage.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “Then why, in God’s name, did you offer yourself to me at Helwater?” 

The Scotsman shrugged. “I almost felt it was inevitable. That if I asked so much of ye, ye’d expect something in return. And I would ha’ done anything to keep William protected.” 

“But if you believed that I was sadistic enough to do that, then why on earth did you believe I’d make a suitable guardian for your son?” As usual, Grey’s logical brain calculated the discrepancy automatically. 

Jamie sighed. “I didna tell ye the whole truth. It wisna that I really thought ye’d take advantage of me eventually anyway. I did fear that, for a while, but by then… It was more that… that I wanted to give ye something. To pay ye back for yer kindness, and for what ye’d be doing for Willie, in the future. I had nothing else to give that ye would desire.” 

“Is that why you kissed me? I never understood why you did that.” Without thinking, John brought a finger up to touch his lips. He’d tried so hard to recall that moment later, the feel of Jamie’s warm mouth on his, the rough stubble of his beard. The hardness that instantly strained at his breeches. 

Jamie nodded. “I wanted to give ye something, at least, and I… I thought ye’d like it.” 

John’s voice was husky. “I did.” 

At this, Jamie rose, and turned away. “Well, I’ve said all I meant to say.” 

“Jamie?” 

The redhead looked back. 

“Thank you.” 

Jamie nodded. 

Realizing he’d been sitting in a very uncomfortable position for a long time, John tried to lie down again, but a burning torment in the area of his stitches made him gasp halfway down. Jamie rushed over to help, sliding his arms under John’s body to pick him up and move him down. Grey, embarrassed, adjusted his legs gingerly and steeled himself against the accompanying sting. He looked at Jamie, who was staring back at him with murder in his eyes. 

“I will kill the man who did this to ye, John. I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tinker001 for inspiring this chapter.


	7. A Disagreeable Stew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord John proves to be an impatient patient. He discovers something on his first trip out of bed that may change more than his own life.

Two days later, Claire caught Lord John coming out of the tent. “John! Where do you think you’re going? You shouldn’t be up!” 

John pulled his coat down sharply and set his jaw at her. “I will not intrude upon your hospitality any longer. I thank you for your assistance, Mistress Fraser, but I assure you I am fine.” 

Claire raised an eyebrow. He was clearly not in a mood to be argued with. “A week, I told you. Do you think I don’t know my own profession?” Ignoring this, he gave a curt nod and began to walk away. “You’ll rip your stitches!” she hissed in a whisper, glancing around to make sure no one could hear. “At least come back once a day so I can check them.” 

He paused, his back to her. 

“Please.” 

He nodded again before continuing on his way. Damn the woman! Was it not bad enough that she knew of his feelings for Jamie? And that she had Jamie and he never would? Now she was privy to one more humiliating secret. He knew he wasn’t being fair, though. She was only concerned for him. 

Grey sighed deeply and made his way—slowly and carefully—to the mess tent. His sense of honour (and his pride, if he was honest) would not let him take their bed any longer, nor to eat their food. He was a man and he could take care of himself. He found something that looked vaguely like stew and sat on a wooden bench to eat it, cursing under his breath at the pain that action caused him. He poked at his meal idly, listening to the chatter of the men nearby in order to distract himself from wondering what animal had died in his bowl. 

Suddenly, one of the voices seemed to leap out at him, and he dropped his spoon. He dared not turn his head, but he knew the man was standing somewhere to his right. The man. He would know that horrid, gruff voice anywhere. “Don’t struggle and it won’t hurt,” he’d said. Not true at all. Frozen with fear and anger, John tried to think. What if he was recognized? He couldn’t bear the thought that his attacker might be looking at him, laughing at him, right this minute. He stood slowly, leaving the bowl behind, and walked off in the opposite direction, keeping his back straight and his steps as unhurried as possible. As soon as he’d gotten far enough away to not be seen, he doubled back, stood behind a wagon, and forced himself to look. 

He was a soldier—a private--of average height but above-average weight, with a mess of filthy black hair and a scruffy, unkempt beard. How was he allowed to be so slovenly? Grey himself would never stand for one of his regiment to not be neatly groomed. His face was quite ugly, not that that made any difference. He might have been beautiful, slim, and blond but the sight of him would still have caused the queasiness John now felt in his stomach. The longer he looked, the more ill he felt, remembering the rasp of the man’s breath in his ear, the heavy body cold and merciless against his back, the tip of the dagger an ever-present threat. The vomit rose in his throat before he could stop it and he turned his head, spewing half-chewed mystery chunks onto the ground by the wagon’s wheel. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth, looking up just in time to see Jamie striding purposefully toward him. “Oh dear God in heaven…” he groaned. 

“John? Whit are ye daein’ here, man? Ye’re clearly too ill to be out o’ bed yet. Is it an infection?” Jamie’s eyes narrowed as he followed John’s gaze, which had been dragged involuntarily back to the two men standing not twenty feet away. “What is it? Did ye recognize one o’ them?”

Grey shook his head, cleared his throat, and spat into his handkerchief. “Something I ate disagreed with me. Let us go.” He started off, but Jamie caught his arm. 

“It was one o’ them, wasn’t it?” The Scot looked into his friend’s eyes, and the hurt there filled him with both pity and rage. His voice was so low now that John could barely hear it. “Which one?” 

Stubbornly, Grey kept silent. 

“No matter. I’ll just kill them both.” Jamie reached for the sword at his side. 

“No!” John’s hand was sweaty and trembling on Jamie’s forearm. “I’ll—I’ll tell you. But not here, not now.”

Jamie let his hand drop. “Fine,” he nodded. “But you will tell me?”

“I’ve said so.” John was feeling unwell in several ways, and his harsh tone showed it. The last thing he wanted was for Fraser to kill a man in the middle of camp, during daylight hours, and be tried as a coldblooded murderer. The second-last thing he wanted was for Jamie to announce to all and sundry exactly why he had done so. “May we go? Please?” 

Jamie looked gently at John. “Aye,” he said, and took his arm. They walked together back to the Fraser tent, despite Grey’s protestations. Jamie had no thought of hiding his intentions from his wife, but when they arrived, Claire was gone. He gestured for John to sit and brought him a cup of water. “Now,” he began, hands on hips, “tell me.” 

“Jamie…” John looked up, meaning to warn the redhead off, but the fire in his friend’s eyes quelled such thoughts. “I will tell you only if you promise you will not charge out of here and run the man through today. I could not bear… I would not have you arrested, defending my honour.” 

A fraction of the tension in Jamie’s broad shoulders released, and he sighed with resignation. “Aye, I swear it. Not today.”

“The dark, swarthy man you saw.”

“He’s the man who--”

“Yes,” Grey cut him off. 

“Ye’re certain?”

Lord John nodded. “I heard him speak. And his… shape… fits with my memory of that night. I am certain it was him.” 

“Did he see ye just now?” 

“I don’t believe so.” 

“So he maybe disnae even know ye’re still in the camp. And ye’ve never seen him before? Ye don’t know the man from anywhere else?” 

“No.” John looked down at his shoes. They were splattered with mud from the previous night’s rains. 

“Twas a crime of opportunity, then. He must have just seen ye alone and liked the look o’ ye.” Jamie caught John’s frown. “I mean to say, he must have seen ye were unsuspecting, not that ye looked easy to--”

“Please, sir, I beg you to stop talking.” Jamie obeyed, feeling like a heel, and John sat quietly for a full minute before speaking again. “I was extremely foolish to be so unguarded, and to have no weapon with me. I always carry my dagger. I can’t think why I was so stupid…” 

“Now it’s your turn to stop, John. So ye didna hear him sneak up on you. Ye are human, aye? I’ll hear nay more aboot it.” He took the empty cup from Grey, filled it half full with whisky, and returned it. 

John took a swallow. “Mmm, that’s good.” He looked at Jamie. “Whatever you’re planning to do, forget it. The only person who should be seeking revenge upon that boor is me.”

Jamie nodded slowly. “Aye, John. And I’m goin’ tae help ye do it.”


	8. Of Monsters and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jamie go looking for their prey. What will they do when they find him?

They decided to do it under cover of darkness. As soon as the sun set, while everyone in the camp was busy with their evening meal, Lord John and Jamie equipped themselves with their weapons, enjoyed a fortifying dram together, and set out. They found John’s attacker sitting outside a tent with the same soldier he’d been talking to earlier in the day. Keeping their distance, they walked past and back again, waiting for the moment when the other man went inside. 

As soon as he did, they acted fast. Jamie clapped a hand over the dark-haired man’s mouth as John pulled the coat down over his arms to restrict his movement and the two friends dragged him, kicking, into the bush. There, Jamie moved his hand away just long enough to stuff a rag into his mouth and tie another around it. The man craned his neck around to see who was behind him, but John quickly wrapped a cloth around his eyes, tying it tightly behind his greasy head. 

They walked him far out into the forest, pushing him out in front of them as he stumbled and tried to speak. When they thought they had gone far enough that no one from camp would hear anything, they stopped, in a small clearing between the trees. Stony-faced, Grey ripped the man’s breeches down and pushed him onto his hands and knees. He stood before his attacker and pulled the blindfold off, allowing a clear view of himself. He said nothing as the man stared at him, confused at first. Then recognition lit his eyes with fear and John nodded. He pulled his dagger from his belt and moved behind the man, pointing its shiny tip toward the ample, bare arse. The man tried to shout and ended up whimpering behind the gag. 

“Not with your dagger--he’ll bleed out and die too quickly,” Jamie said in a matter-of-fact tone. 

“What would you suggest? I’m not about to sully my prick in him.” John felt the thrill of adrenaline surging through his body, giving him strength. He was no longer afraid of the man, only violently angry. 

Jamie bent and retrieved from the forest floor a large stick, about three feet long and five inches thick, and handed it to John. Seeing this, the attacker scrambled to his feet, attempting to run, but John pushed him down with one foot on his back. The man started to cry as John slowly dragged the rough branch over his exposed backside. Fraser held his sword out in warning as Grey kneeled to remove the gag. The pig’s foul breath brought back unwanted memories but John pushed them away. “Is there something you’d like to say to me?” he asked, behind clenched teeth. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! If that was you the other night, I’m sorry. Please don’t. I—I know I have a problem. I swear I won’t do it again. I—I’ll go away and you’ll never have to see me again. Please.” 

“A problem!” John snorted. “You are evil. You are an evil, despicable creature, incapable of redemption. How many others have you victimized in this way?”

“N-none, I swear!”

“Liar!” Grey shouted, kicking him hard in the side. 

“All right, a few. But I swear I’ll change if you’ll just let me go!” His voice was hoarse with desperation.

“What shall it be? Your balls or your arm?”

“What?!”

John was icy cool. “You heard me. I’m not going to rape you. I’m going to make sure you can never do it again. I’m going to cut off your balls. Or, because I’m a gentleman, your arm—you decide.” He threw down the stick and held up his dagger, the moonlight glinting on the sharp steel blade. 

“N-no, no, please, God no…”

“Make up your mind or I’ll decide for you. And you won’t like my choice.” The edge in his words left no room for doubt. 

Jamie stepped forward and gave the man a swift cuff across the head. “Answer him.” 

“Arm, arm! Take my arm. Oh, Jesus Christ!” The man was sobbing, spraying spittle and snot over his already dirty clothes before Grey even began. 

“Get up,” Lord John ordered. When he tore the sleeve of the man’s shirt off with a firm yank and brought his dagger to a spot midway between elbow and shoulder, John’s victim started to scream. “This is going to hurt an awful lot, I’m afraid. Shouldn’t really use a dagger for this, but… Maybe if you don’t struggle, it won’t be that bad.” Grey allowed himself a bitter smile. He nodded to Jamie, who grabbed the man in a bear hug, holding him fast. Blood spattered onto John’s face as he worked, sawing steadily into skin and bone. He felt a sick satisfaction as the bastard howled in pain. Several minutes later, the man had fainted in Jamie’s arms, been slapped awake again, and finally slid down to the ground, gaping at the jagged bone that was all that was left of his right arm. A fountain of red spilled from the wound. 

“Finish it,” the bleeding man whispered, sweat pouring down his brow. “Please.” 

They’d been planning to tie up his arm and leave him near the camp, where someone was sure to find him. John looked at the man, then at Jamie. 

Jamie’s face was set in a grimace. “He disnae deserve your consideration.” 

“I know he doesn’t,” John replied. “But I am not a monster.” He turned back to the man on the ground before him. “You would rather die than live with one arm?”

“Yes, yes! Please kill me. Please, I beg you, if you have any mercy left.” On his knees, he held his hands up toward Lord John, pressed together in a parody of prayer.

“So be it.” Grey walked around behind him, lifted his dagger to the man’s throat, and sliced it open in one elegant stroke. The man choked and gurgled, sagged against a tree, and died. John wiped his blade on a nearby patch of grass and returned the dagger to his belt. His face blank, he turned to Jamie. “Now what?” 

Jamie poked at the body with a toe. “We bury him and his evil deeds wi’ him.” His eyes met John’s. “And we sleep well tonight, aye?” 

“I hope so.” John’s bloodied hands were shaking as he helped Jamie roll the body into a shallow depression in the earth and cover it with leaves. They would return after midnight with shovels. 

Both men were silent as they walked back to camp. After a few minutes, a wave of nausea and fatigue washed over John, and he sank to the ground. 

“Just a little farther, John. Ye cannae stay here, so close to the body. We’re almost there. Come on, now.” Jamie tucked an arm around him and helped him back up.


	9. The Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can time heal all wounds?

Two weeks later, Jamie and Lord John were having a drink after finishing a game of chess on the portable set that John had gifted to Jamie. Both men were quiet, listening to the clatter of pans, the murmur of voices, and the hoot of an owl in the distance. Fraser took another sip of his whisky and fixed his eyes on John. “How are ye feeling?”

Grey turned to him, his daydream involving the hayloft at Helwater interrupted. “Pardon?” 

“I said, how are ye feeling these days? Any better?” 

John considered. “Much better, physically.” Since Jamie had shared so much of his own harrowing story, John had felt more comfortable being open with him. Although the thought of what his love had suffered through still pained him deeply, the knowledge had definitely brought them closer. 

“And in yer mind?” Jamie’s piercing blue eyes refused to waiver. 

“I’m glad he’s gone.” John’s tone was emotionless. 

“Ye’ve made yer peace with it, then? With what we did?” Seeing John nod, he continued. “And with…what happened to ye?” 

Grey traced a finger around the rim of his pewter cup, staring down into the amber liquid. “I don’t know that I will ever be at peace with that. But the memory wounds me less now.”

“I am verra glad to hear it. Time is the great healer. Do ye still believe ye could ha’ stopped him? Them?”

John knew what Jamie wanted to hear—that he no longer felt ashamed for not having been able to stop what happened, either time. But he couldn’t lie to his friend, this man who had risked so much to help him. “I…am trying not to.”

“It takes time, John. But I can tell ye it does get easier. And if ye ever need reminding o’ what kind o’ man ye really are, ye only need to ask me.” 

Grey’s eyes watered and he wiped them quickly on his sleeve. After all the years they had known each other, and all the mistakes they both had made, saying things they wished they could take back, Jamie had finally accepted him as an equal. John’s preference for men was, he thought, no longer an obstacle in the way of their friendship, something shameful to be hidden and ignored. To Fraser now, Lord John was a man of honour in every way. He would never return Grey’s desire, but the love they did have together was something to be cherished. 

The conversation turned to less personal matters until finally John rose to leave. “I thank you for a lovely evening, sir.” 

***  
He had not gotten far past the Frasers’ tent when a man fell into step beside him. Grey tensed, feeling for the reassuring weight of the dagger in his belt. 

“Like some company?” the shadowy figure asked. 

Grey turned, hand on his weapon. The man was attractive, tall and blond, about ten years younger than he, and very nicely built. John thought he had seen him around the camp. The stranger was taking a chance approaching another man in this way, but what he’d said could easily be explained away. The hint in his voice was not lost on Grey, however, nor was the fact that he walked close enough to brush against John’s arm. “Why not,” Grey said quietly, and turned away from the camp. 

The blond followed him into the trees for a couple of minutes and then they stopped. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Does it matter?” John moved toward him, backing him up against a tree. His hands pressed against the rough bark and his face was inches from the blond’s. Their breath mingled in the cool night air. 

“No,” the man said, and reached for Grey’s flies. He unbuttoned them and sank to his knees.

John felt the warm mouth on his cock and tangled his hands in the stranger’s curly blond locks. “I am in control,” he whispered. 

The mouth moved away only for a second. “Yes,” it agreed, and set to work again.

***  
It was late and very dark by the time John emerged from the woods. He got turned around and ended up walking past the Frasers’ tent again. He kept his head down, not wanting Jamie to think he was stalking him, but Claire came out right at that second and nearly smashed into him. She was carrying a pan of dirty water, and it sloshed over her skirts. 

“Oh, I do apologize!” He found a clean handkerchief and handed it to her. 

“John! You’re looking chipper tonight.” She could see that he was smiling. “Feeling better?” 

The smile widened into a grin. “Oh, yes. Much better, thank you. Goodnight.” He tipped his hat to her and walked off, a bounce in his step.

“I’m glad,” Claire said, and watched him go. 

The End


End file.
